


là jiāo páng xiè

by Odamaki



Series: Over Dinner [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Cooking, Dinner, Dinner Party, Everyone is cute, Food, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25712971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odamaki/pseuds/Odamaki
Summary: The invitation comes by email, with instructions that include an edict not to wear anything white, adding a heightened sense of anticipation to the affair.Wufei invites his fellow pilots to his house for the first time.
Relationships: Friendship - Relationship
Series: Over Dinner [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864894
Comments: 18
Kudos: 35





	là jiāo páng xiè

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Date Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739845), but standalone enough that you don't need to have read Date Night first.

The invitation comes by email, with instructions that include an edict not to wear anything white, adding a heightened sense of anticipation to the affair. 

Affair, of course, only in that there is a guilty sense of over self-indulgence and secrecy around these meals that they have together. The feeling is completely needless, but it’s now a habit that can’t be given up so easily. None of them are capable of living only to please themselves, and on the night of the party they approach after dark, like cats, playing up an air of no great importance and inwardly excited. 

The apartment can be reached through the front via a buzzer and lobby, or direct up the back alley and the fire escape. Wufei leaves the latter access open, and accepts that one minute he will be alone in the flat and the next minute soft footsteps will come into the kitchen. 

Trowa is the worst for this. Over the years, Wufei has trained himself not to flinch if he turns around and the man is suddenly there, but there’s something slightly supernatural about Trowa at times. This time, however, Trowa coughs slightly from the door before he enters, giving Wufei time to close the notebook and look up. 

“Barton,” Wufei says, tipping his glasses up on top of his head. “You’re early.” 

“You said five-thirty.” 

“And it’s six now and you’re always late, so I lied. The others might be late too,” Wufei adds. “There’s a sea fog forecast this evening. Did you get caught in it?” Trowa has a fine dew of moisture across his shoulders and in his hair. 

“No, it was clear further down the coast, but it’s raining a bit,” Trowa says, running his hand across the wet.

“It does that around here,” Wufei agrees, beckoning him into the apartment. “Come in.” 

Trowa toes his shoes off, dangling them by the backs as he follows, feeling large in Wufei’s boxy little home. None of them have been here before. It is uncluttered in a way that could feel sad except the few objects Wufei has are placed deliberately enough to indicate that the lack of possessions is a choice rather than a burden, and perhaps even that’s changing. There’s a bright red New Years decoration tacked on one wall like an afterthought, something he might have gotten free at the supermarket. 

The furniture has been pushed back to accommodate more space around the table, which has been liberally spread with newspaper, and nothing else. Trowa notes, with some curiosity, that there is also little sign of industry in the kitchen. 

“Drink?” Wufei offers.

“Sure.”

“Anything in particular?” 

“Anything’s good.” 

Wufei leaves him a moment to look around. The fridge clunks softly as he opens it, bottles in the door clinking as they slide about. 

“Nice place,” Trowa says over his shoulder. Wufei emerges again, tipping a beer into a glass. 

“Yes, it’s alright,” he replies, sparing a glance around the space like it’s never occurred to him before. “Serves its purpose. Here.” Wufei holds the glass out, and returns to the kitchen. Glass rattles against plastic, and the fridge clunks again. 

It’s odd that it feels a little awkward. Over the years, they haven’t spent a great deal of time one-to-one, but that never seemed to cause any friction when they did. Trowa wonders if it’s this; that ownership of a space changes a person unseen. He’s aware that it’s a privilege to be here; Wufei never invites anyone in across his boundaries. It’s only now, after years of knowing one another, he’s started to quietly indicate where the back gates to those personal walls are, and the times when he leaves them unlocked. 

Trowa ambles back to lean through the kitchen hatch.

“You got a plant,” Trowa notes, gesturing to the windowsill. Wufei regards the fern and rubs his own ear thoughtfully. 

“Mm, I’ve had a few,” he agrees at length, fussing the leaves a little. “They keep dying. I think it’s too dry in here. Maybe I should try something else.”

“Cactus.” 

“Eh,” Wufei wrinkles his nose. “Not enough light back here.” He uncaps a second beer and decants it into a second glass, dropping the bottle into the recycling bin without a glance. 

“Cheers.” 

“Gānbēi.” The glasses ring against one another. They drink. 

From the alley outside a whistle breaks the quiet. A familiar, high note that dips after the first punch to something longer and smoother, too long for a wolf-whistle though the attitude is related, and then goes out on a breathy uptick like the call of some exotic bird. 

‘Pihyuuuuu-fwip!’ 

It summons them to the fire escape, leaning out with their glasses to peer into the poorly lit space below from where a grin is beaming up at them. The man cups both hands around his mouth and hollers to them. 

“Hey hot-stuff, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” 

“Throw a boot,” Trowa suggests loudly. “That’s what you’re supposed to do to deter screaming tomcats, isn’t it?”

The fire escape clangs and shakes as Duo ascends, his laughter romping up the stairs ahead of him, until he catches it up, breath puffing in the chilly air. 

“Idiot,” Wufei says, without rancour. “You’re going to disturb my neighbours.” 

Trowa adds, “You’re going to give Wufei a reputation.” 

“What the hell else did you invite me for?” Duo counters, smothering first Trowa and then Wufei with enthusiasm. 

“Thank you,” Trowa says, rubbing the ringing aftermath of a kiss out of his ear. “I shall wash for a week.” 

Duo just laughs again and invades the kitchen ahead of them, spinning on his heel as soon as he’s out of the way and planting his butt on the floor to worry at his bootlaces. “How y’been? And since when did you drink without me nagging you?” Duo wants to know, pretending to be outraged and evidently delighted. 

“I’m at home,” Wufei says dismissively. He fetches a third bottle from the fridge and Duo shakes his head when he reaches for a glass so he passes over as-is. 

“Yeah, nice,” Duo says of the flat, “Thanks for having us.” 

Wufei gives a nod of acknowledgment that’s got its social origins in a bow, and says, “It’s nothing really…” with reserved but genuine pleasure. 

“Well, it suits you,” Duo reaffirms, standing up and looking around properly. “Got a real Wufei feel to it.”

“Now you’re being sarcastic.”

“Listen, it’s nicer than Heero’s place.”

“Duo,” Trowa says quietly, and Duo hastily laughs out an apology. 

“I’m just jealous you can keep it so tidy. Soon as I get back to my digs and blink it seems like there’s suddenly shit everywhere…Speaking of-”

He worries around the inside of his jacket and drags out a package, roughly wrapped, holding it out to Wufei.

“What’s this?” 

“Housewarming gift, duh.” 

“I moved in over a year ago,” Wufei comments, taking it. 

“Better late than never,” Duo argues, and hovers at his elbow as Wufei teases the paper off. “Just found it at one of those flea markets and it seemed like something you’d like.” 

The paper spills a finger-length of carved wood into Wufei’s hand. The carving runs with the pale grain, lending it an organic, living flare. It is Japanese rather than Chinese, and Earth-made rather than anything from L5, but it charms. Wufei smooths his thumb up the brow of the dragon netsuke. The wood is satiny under his skin, and the dragon has an expression of coy indifference, like it’s just waiting to be flattered. 

“It’s lovely,” he says, as Duo waves off all thanks, and they are spared from any sentimentality by the buzzing of the intercom.

___

Heero is a shade shorter than Quatre these days, and there’s something comical about Heero Yuy, the man himself, craning slightly to be seen in the video screen over the blonde’s shoulder. Wufei punches the button to let them up and they troop in only moments later. 

“It’s just started raining,” Quatre reports. “I mean, properly. Hello, you,” he adds to Duo, easily squashing him in an embrace. “I thought I heard trouble.” 

“Q, I’m wounded. I’m very quiet, I just smell like trouble.” 

“You smell like motor oil and cologne.” 

“Yeah,” Duo says, brightening, “I made an effort.” 

Quatre shrugs out of a rain mac, finally letting Heero by-pass him. In greeting, Heero fends off Duo with a bottle, which slips from hand to hand into Wufei’s possession. 

“Don’t ask me what it is, Quatre chose it.” 

“Don’t ask me either, I went with a recommendation. It’s supposed to be very nice, though.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Wufei says, tilting the bottle, already chilled and dewing in the warm air of the apartment. The label is in Japanese and the rice paper is embossed and expensive looking. He doesn’t mention that he hasn’t any sake cups, but before he can wonder what to serve it in, Trowa is balancing a box in front of his nose. 

“I had a hunch,” he says. “And I’ll insist you keep them so we have an excuse to come drink here.” 

Wufei smiles slightly. The cups are made of wood, no label. He turns to ask Trowa if he made these himself, but Trowa has deliberately removed himself to open more beers and pass them around.

“Go and take a seat,” Wufei orders, instead. “And I’ll bring the food.” 

Curious, they group around the table, which is bare except for the newspaper and a trivet. Wufei rummages in the kitchen, the kettle briefly roars and he comes back with a curious collection of items - plastic bags slit open along their sides, toothpicks, kitchen roll, and what look like surgical instruments to Duo’s eye. 

“Is someone about to give birth?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He plucks one from the table top, a hefty object that he’d say was a pair of pliers, only the hinge in the wrong place - right at the tip rather than in the middle. “Or do we have to build the oven first?” 

“I know,” Quatre crows, picking up one of the other implements and waggling it at him. It’s a long, thin, silver contraption, like a flattened chopstick, with a tongue shaped flare at one end and a tiny two-pronged fork at the other. “Now I’m excited.”

“It’s coming,” Wufei says. He sets down five steaming bowls, one for each of them, but warns, “Don’t drink it,” to both Heero and Duo before he lets go of the china. 

“I know what a finger bowl is,” Heero grouses, “I went to private school.” 

“Sure,” Wufei says, “You still drank the one they put down at the last Preventer annual dinner.”

“It had flowers in it. It looked like tea.” 

The dishes Wufei brings out next raise hopes, but one is empty, and the other merely heaped with white rice. Quatre peeks at it. 

“Sticky rice?” he asks, hopefully. 

“Sticky rice,” Wufei confirms. “Clear some space around the middle someone, and you might want to wear the bags. Sorry, I haven’t got proper napkins or bibs or anything.”

“Ah-hah,” says Trowa in sudden understanding. 

“What’s ‘ah-hah’?” Duo demands. “You’re all being mysterious and it’s annoying.” 

“Just put a bag on,” Trowa advises, “And get ready.” 

Dubious, Duo picks up a bag by its handles like they are bunny ears and follows Quatre’s example in tying them around his neck, the plastic dangling down his front. “I feel ridiculous. Wufei, your dinner is ridiculous.” 

“No, it’s not,” Wufei calls from the kitchen with some confidence. They hear the click-click-click-click-oof of the gas ring being lit, and the clatter of metal on metal. There’s a rattle, like he’s shaking stones around in a pan, and a sudden, intense smell of garlic and spice clouds out of the tiny kitchen. The wok bangs, something clinks onto the counter, and before they know what’s happened, it’s arrived. 

“Hot. Hot!” Wufei barks, carting the dish through, grasped in a couple of tea towels. They lean back from the table as he dumps it on the trivet, steam gusting from the depths of the pot. 

“There,” Wufei says, satisfied. He wipes his hands on a tea towel, leaning in to give the food one last inspection and then nods. “Eat.” 

Duo leans forward, peering. 

It’s a mess of legs and carapace in a brown-red sauce, spangled with chopped herbs and gleaming. A whisker, unseen in the fog, protrudes from the steel and pokes his cheek, startling him. 

“What is it?” 

“Chilli crab,” Wufei says, fixing his plastic bag. “Use your hands, but don’t rub your eyes. I made it authentically spicy.” 

“It’s looking at me,” Duo says. 

Wufei dollops a spoonful of rice into a bowl for him and says, “It’s been boiled, so I doubt it. Just try it.” 

“I see I have firmly converted you to seafood,” Quatre says approvingly, not waiting either. He juggles a hot piece of crab from the pot with his fingers onto his rice, and then exalts in licking the sauce from his thumb. “Mmm!” 

“We had crabs on L5,” Wufei answers, and then quickly, “Not a word, Barton.” 

“Wasn’t going to say it.” 

“You were thinking it. I heard it. ” 

“I was just going to say you should see what they’ve got below decks on L3.” 

Quatre clicks his tongue. “Trowa, we’re eating.” 

“I was talking about the aquaponics,” Trowa says, feigning hurt. 

“Sorry, what am I doing with this?” Duo pleads, dangling a crab leg from finger and thumb, precipitating a short flurry of good advice. 

“Pull it apart,” Wufei tells him, spoken over by Quatre, dangling the pliers and enthusing, “Oh! Does it need banging with the nut crackers?” 

“Just suck it,” Trowa says, in conclusion. 

Duo chokes. “Excuse you?” 

Gently, Heero lifts the crab leg from his fingers, pops a joint and slides the meat out for him.

“Eat the soft bits.” 

“Ha-ha, you’re all so funny.” 

“Yes, only we all recall you and the prawns,” Trowa points out. 

“No one told me you had to peel them! I’m not used to meat you have to peel!”

“I eat the shells on prawns sometimes,” Quatre says, through the laughter. “The small ones. Sometimes its not worth the effort and I quite like the texture.” 

“You’re all insane,” Duo says, wiggling a pick into the next section of crab leg and hiking out a creamy oval of meat. It is sweet and earthy, brined and juicy. It melts across his tongue with hardly a bite, and then fires a second volley of flavour from the sauce, which rivals with the steam to make his nose run. “Hrmm…Ok.. Ok. That’s pretty edible.” 

“It’s good,” Trowa confirms, and the table sinks into the silence of focussed industry. 

It is messy, undignified eating. Implements squirt from slippery fingers, shells slurp, noses are smudged. The garlic is potent. The sake is too, but clear and crisp as water and refreshing in contrast to the pungency of coriander and spice. The windows of the flat are fogged from the inside, reflecting back the lights and closing them off from the night beyond. 

The drink and the rice vanish first, whilst the crab is redistributed into multiple piles of rubble. Wufei gets up with dripping fingers and returns with a second round of drinks and dishes - pillowy steamed buns for mopping up, cold noodles drenched in citrus and sesame; a dish of pickles. 

Heero cracks the claws open, self-appointed in this duty. When finesse fails, he has the brute strength to wrench the pincers off, when he can get a grip on them. 

Duo gnaws on stubborn legs, hating the fiddliness but determined to reach the contents. 

“You’re going to break a tooth,” Quatre scolds, deftly shelling for him. The chilli burns the soft undersides of their nails, and the finger bowls are swamped onto the tabletop trying to remedy it. 

“How did you chop this much chilli without dying?” Duo wants to know. 

“Gloves. I thought it might simmer down once it was cooked,” Wufei admits. 

Eventually, they find the bottom of the pot and the meal reduces to idle gum sucking and tooth picking, a recumbent grooming before anyone has the energy for anything as much as washing his hands and face at the sink. 

“I’ve actually just bathed myself in crab,” Quatre says, taking in the state of himself. The plastic bib has kept the worst off of his outfit but he’s glad he rolled his sleeves up. Trowa snuffles a laugh.

“That’s how you can tell it was good.” 

“You’ve got some on your chin.” 

“Saving it for later,” Trowa answers, dabbing. “Well done, Wufei. Not bad.” 

“‘Not bad’? Ingrate,” Wufei says, only pretending to grouch. The booze has made his face go tomatoey, although there’s not one of them who isn’t a little flushed now. Eventually he fetches a garbage bag from the kitchen and they rattle the shells into it, the bibs, the sodden newspaper. Trowa, atoning, heaves the trash out at arm’s length to the alleyway dumpster, whilst the others wipe down the table, chairs, elbows, and faces with damp cloths. 

“What’s for dessert?” Duo asks, fiddling garlic out of a back tooth. 

Wufei snorts. “Wash the dishes first,” he orders.

___

“It’s starting to get pretty miserable out there,” Trowa reports, and it is. The rain has only dragged the clouds farther down onto the city, making the contrast between inside and out more apparent than ever. 

Wufei cranks the thermostat up another degree, and then serves an array of items on the narrow coffee table. 

“Dude, your oranges are frozen,” Duo says, knocking one on the table in surprise. “What gives?” 

“Just let it thaw for a while,” Wufei advises. “Trust me, satsumas are sweeter after they’ve been frozen.” 

There’s ice cream as well, in individual tubs, candied walnuts, and a simple cake-like confection flavoured only with brown sugar. Wufei brews tea, and then on second thoughts, uncaps another bottle of liquor.

“I’ve no idea,” he says in response to queries about it, squinting long-sightedly at the label. It’s hand-written on a brown tag. “Sally gave it to me. Someone she knows makes things.” 

“You make that sound like a crime,” Quatre comments. 

“Just don’t blame me if you drink it and go blind.” He pours it into the teacups, rather than risk staining the wooden cups, and at length the liquor is deemed to be quite palatable, though no-one can determine what fruit it is. 

Somehow a new pack of cards finds its way onto the table. Wufei picks the plastic wrap off, saying firmly, “But not poker, Quatre cheats.” 

“Me?” Quatre says, in feigned offence, because it is true and he has no resistance to counting the cards. 

“Blackjack?” 

Duo snores. “Boring. And I’m not betting for money - Can’t afford it.”

“Go Fish,” Heero says flatly. “What? That one’s more or less down to luck.” 

“Alright, but you or Wufei have to deal. These two have a knack for somehow dealing bum hands to everyone but each other,” Duo says. 

“Me?” Trowa says, mimicking Quatre. “I’m feeling maligned. Aren’t you?” 

“Horribly maligned. I may go home and cry,” Quatre replies, sweeping each card as it’s dealt into his hand. “After I mop the floor with you all.” 

It’s a ridiculous game. They bicker over the finer details of the rules, jeer when cards are won or lost, argue about making it into a drinking game, and drain the bottle anyway. 

___  
___

The fire escape door shuts with a clatter, and Duo stands for a moment, brushing ice from his shoulders. “It’s sleeting,” he says, looking mournful of the face. “And there’s a car at the kerb. Quatre?”

Quatre, enjoying the rare chore of drying dishes, look up and then at his watch. “Oh! That’s probably mine. I didn’t realise it was already gone midnight.” 

“It’s nearly one,” Heero corrects. 

“Oh no, they’ll have been waiting!” Quatre groans, apologetically pushing the tea towel into Duo’s hands and hustling to gather his things. “I’m sorry, I’ll have to dash. I hate being that client…”

“I need a lift,” Trowa says, following him. He tugs a jacket on, scarf, gloves, a whole array of small items that he seems to have gradually spread around Wufei’s apartment. 

Duo stands there, frowning at his phone and pulling his lower lip as Quatre bundles Wufei into a brief squash of an embrace which elongates into Quatre holding Wufei by the arms and talking earnest nonsense at him. 

“It was a lovely meal and thank you so much for everything. I’ll have to let you know when I’m next in town so we can catch up again - sorry I’m rushing off so abruptly-”

Trowa gently untangles Quatre and walks him backwards across the living room a step at a time, still rattling out his gratitude until they hit the door. 

“Thanks,” Trowa says over Quatre’s head. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Bye! Bye, Heero! Bye Duo! Wait, how are you two getting home? Do you need a lift?”

“Wrong side of the city,” Heero says, accepting the clasp of Quatre’s hand and then firmly turning him out the door before Trowa. “Go on, your car is waiting.” 

“Bye, Q-ball! Barton, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do on the backseat!” 

“Duo, I couldn’t imagine what you wouldn’t do on the backseat,” Trowa quips back, amused, and then with one last so-long, the door shuts. 

“You’d think we were parting for twenty years,” Wufei comments, once their footsteps fade away, but the room feels a little flatter and empty without Quatre, like even the furnishings have breathed a little wistfulness at parting. He stacks the last of the dishes in short efficient movements, glancing out the kitchen window. 

“Are you taking the train? You’ll struggle to find a cab in this weather.”

“Uh, yeah…” Duo says, distracted. He’s planted on the floor hastily lacing his boots. “Hate to bail but I was planning to get the last-last train but it’s cancelled, so I have to run. Heero?” 

“When’s the train?”

Duo wrestles at his other boot, bumping his heel to get his foot inside. “Oh, like now. I mean literally run or we’re gonna miss it.”

“Miss it then,” Wufei says, matter of fact. It takes them a heartbeat, Wufei included, to realise that he means it. Somewhat more gruffly, he gestures to the sofa with the dishcloth. “It’s a pull out.” 

Duo pauses, locking eyes with Heero to ask an unspoken question. Heero answers it by shrugging. 

“Ok,” Duo says, relaxing his legs back onto the floor. “It’s not a bother?” 

Wufei folds the dishcloth, one quarter at a time over the bar of his forearm. “It’s not a bother,” he says. 

______

Life on earth agrees with Wufei. Despite having been born in space (and this being an identity he cannot shake and would find the suggestion that he should attempt to offensive), like Trowa, he’s the type of person who benefits from the relief of a more open environment. 

Duo, in direct contrast, has no use for broad vistas, and for Quatre, who is wealthy enough to have the benefit of elbow room even in the colonies, it is about the people around him rather than the space. For Quatre, a change of company is as good as a change of location. As for Heero, when the close quarters rankle he resolves merely to change his own perspective, and doesn’t philosophise too deeply about it. 

At any rate, even Duo as the die-hard spacer of the group has to admit that Wufei is better for having moved dirt-side. 

He’d never have allowed this before - company, willingly in his own personal space, during the vulnerable hours of sleep. 

The sofa opens out like a sandwich and Wufei climbs up into his own loft sleeping space to drop down blankets, of which he is now settled enough in life to own in plural. 

“Bags-I this side,” Duo says, flopping down onto the right-hand stretch of mattress. It’s on the cheap side, but he’s slept on worse. “No farting or kicking in bed, Yuy, but say the word and I’ll let you be my little spoon.” He sprawls out and leers for emphasis. 

“Hm,” Heero says, firmly shoving Duo onto his own side. 

From above, Wufei’s face appears owlish and upside down. “Not on my sofa,” he warns, and then flicks the light off. 

Through the dark, their eyes blinking and adjusting, Duo’s voice filters up, too loud. “Trust me, won’t happen. Heero’s got garlic breath.”

“I cleaned my teeth,” Heero says, faintly wounded. 

“With what?” Wufei asks from above. He does not get an immediate answer, which makes him feel compelled to lean over the side of the loft and repeat the question with more urgency.

“My finger,” Heero says from below. “And some toilet paper.” 

There is a thunk as Wufei lies back in his bed. “I swear to god…” 

Duo muffles his hysterics in the cushions. “Why toilet paper?”

“It helps rub the furry feeling off more.” 

“You got some weird habits, Yuy.” 

“Says the man who presumably didn’t clean his teeth at all,” Wufei says to the ceiling. Duo snorts. 

“I carry a toothbrush with me, so eat it, Chang.” 

“The toothbrush?” 

In other company, Duo’s giggles would have been contagious but soon they fade out to a contented sigh as Heero and Wufei both lie in the dark and thrum with the unknown sensation of being awake in the dark and giddy from overindulgence, the naughty sense of harmlessly breaking some hidden rule of sleep, the dovetailing of positive mood between close friends. 

When they whisper, it’s a shade too loud or too quiet. Lying in the dark without sight of one another makes it confessional, though they say nothing of any real depth. That in itself is a novelty. The conversation flows like water down a shallow gradient, running at less than a walking pace from one topic to another, pooling and vanishing only to resurface further down the slope.

A blanket rustles with the moving of a leg. Heero makes sleep noises in the back of his throat as he yawns. Duo coughs. Wufei snuffles two short breaths in and then sighs as words melt out into a silence filled only by the pattering of rain on the roof and the hum of the appliances. 

With eyes closed, they once more notice the smell of cooking on their clothes and hands. Aromatics that lead them on strings to that afterimage of the busy dinner table still playing in the corner of the flat - that’s waiting for them to sleep so it can settle fully into memory. 

Further over the edge of sleep than not, Wufei rolls over to pull it close.

**Author's Note:**

> là jiāo páng xiè is the name of the dish.


End file.
